


we must be killers

by canniballistics



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canniballistics/pseuds/canniballistics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joseph Kavinsky has been dead for three weeks, and Ronan Lynch has dreamt about him almost every night since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we must be killers

**Author's Note:**

> okay so disclaimer: I haven't read the books in a while. but bisouette drew ronan crying for a meme and i got inspired ;;;; please look at the lovely art [here](http://bisouette.tumblr.com/post/126306864888/omg-this-meme-is-terrible-c8-can-i-vote-for-ronan)!! 
> 
> also, recommended listening for this is "we must be killers" by mikky ekko!

He dreams of acid eyes and razor teeth, smiles like daggers that only ever cut too deep. Never a whole face, only fractions of it: the glint in his eyes, promising the deaths of worlds and nothing but a trail of bodies in his wake. The way his lips shaped words, made even the most innocuous syllable something lethal, dripping with poison. The glow of his taillights as they speed away, leaving the afterimage of a blazing trail seared into his retinas.

Joseph Kavinsky has been dead for three weeks, and Ronan Lynch has dreamt about him almost every night since.

Sometimes, he thinks he can still smell the fire, feel its heat against his skin; those nights, he wakes up disoriented, with Chainsaw staring at him from across the room. Ronan knows she can feel it too, and he scoffs at her before rolling over and _making_ the dream something different.

Sometimes, he dreams of a different kind of heat, of pills on his tongue and the deep black of the Henrietta sky at night, the stars winking out one by one above him. He sits atop the hood of an engineless dream-Pig, and Kavinsky grins wide before swallowing him whole. Ronan wakes up sweating, blood pulsing through his veins, and doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.

It's one of _those_ dreams that has him twisting in his sheets, and when he wakes up, it's with a sharp curse that startles Chainsaw out of her sleep. He throws on some pants, a leather jacket (fuck the shirt though, that's too much work) and rubs her head in apology before slipping out of his room. Gansey is still asleep for once, which makes it easier to pocket the keys to his BMW and ghost out the door. It's happened a few times, where he's gotten up to blow off some steam and instead found Gansey sitting at his desk, chewing on more mint. Ronan won't boast about how he and Gansey have found more than a few connections and clues that way; as productive as it can be, though, it still doesn't quite do it for him. Stepping out into the cool night air, he closes his eyes, lets it settle around him. _This_ is it. 

When he slides into his car and adjusts the mirror, Noah stares balefully at him from the back seat; Ronan congratulates himself for not jumping out of his skin at the surprise. "The fuck is it," he begins, "with ghosts not leaving me alone?"

"Sorry." Noah casts his eyes toward his lap, guilty, and his image flickers in and out, bad reception on a TV. "I wanted to know where you keep going." 

He looks so pathetic that Ronan sighs, scrubs a hand back across his head, wills the frustration out of his voice. "Not tonight, Casper. Okay? Maybe next time."

Noah nods, and then he vanishes, and even if he didn't use the door, Ronan can tell he's vacated the car. There's a sigh of relief. He doesn't want anyone party to this. Nights like this, driving like this, it's become something private, something solely _his_. The engine roars to life with a flick of his wrist, and by the time the echoes of the tires pealing across gravel fade, he's long gone.

Briefly, Ronan contemplates turning on his stereo, then decides against it. There's a roaring in his ears, in his veins, in his head, and when he rolls down the windows, the rush of wind that flows through the car is almost enough to drown it out. The cold feels good, creeping under his jacket and across his scalp. If he thinks too hard, though, the wind almost starts to feel like fingers, slipping delicately across his skin, teasing, catching his breath up. He remembers fingers across his back, tracing his tattoo, sliding down his spine. Decidedly _not fucking helpful_ , so he doesn't think too hard about it, instead takes a deep breath of clear air and presses the pedal even closer to the floor.

He doesn't miss Kavinsky. He doesn't miss the danger, the threat, the thrill that sang through his veins as engines roared and rubber burned. He doesn't miss the prospect of someone who actually knew what the fuck it was like to be him. Ronan Lynch _does not_ miss Kavinsky. 

(Maybe if he repeats it enough times, he'll start to believe it.) 

Yet another lie he tells himself, or maybe just a half-truth, though he's gotten better at finding them. Ronan does, however, let himself dwell on the unanswered questions he still has: how had K been able to reach into Cabeswater in the first place? Were there more thieves? What was it that made him the Greywaren and not Kavinsky? What made them different?

He can almost hear Blue's voice in the back of his head: _Well, for one thing, Kavinsky was a sociopath._ You _actually have a soul, even if you pretend not to._

That doesn't mean shit, though, and Ronan catches himself as his eyes begin searching around corners, peering into dark alleys as he blasts past. Waiting, searching, anticipating bright red lights and a license plate that says THIEF screeching ahead of him. 

Nothing happens, though. No one challenges him, not anymore; they haven't for three weeks. And just like always, his hands tighten on the wheel, lip curling into a sneer. He's pretty sure that by now, the cops have given up on trying to catch him for speeding. The tickets just arrive in the mail, and find their new homes in the garbage. Fuck them. Fuck this, and fuck Kavinsky for being even more fucked up than him.

_There's only with me, or against me._

Ronan grits his teeth at remembering those words. He doesn't regret what happened. He tells himself this, and know that this time it isn't a lie. There was never any chance of joining up with him. Kavinsky lived in the extremes of life; he could only have ended up standing on top of it all, or buried beneath it, and Ronan hadn't at all been surprised to learn which route he'd ended up on. 

Still, for a minute, he lets himself entertain the idea of what could have been. Only for a minute ( _drinksdrugssexspeedtaketaketakerevelbecome_ ) before shutting it down. He has to pull over to the side of the road, and by the time he comes out of his own head, he realizes that he's parked outside of St. Agnes. Ronan can only stare at the doors, before laughing so hard it starts to hurt. It's the first time he's ended up here, from a lie to a secret. How goddamn perfect is this? 

"Fuck me," he mutters, and gets out of the car.

The church is blessedly silent when he slips in, just a few candles lit and not a sister in sight. Ronan stalks through the pews before picking one at random and throwing himself into it, lying across the wood and resting an arm over his face. His blood is still pounding through his veins, but it's a different sort of beat this time, easier to come down from when he's here. This is all right. This works. Finally, finally, Ronan lets himself relax.

He's not sure how long it's been since first laying down that he hears a door open. They're quiet footsteps, sneaking rather than gliding, so he knows it's not one of the sisters. A quiet kernel of irritation seeds in his chest, but he knows it's nothing. There's a low, inconsistent murmur to accompany the footsteps; Ronan catches himself trying to make out the words, even though he already knows what's being said. The floorboards creak as those steps come down the center aisle between the pews, and Ronan doesn't acknowledge it when he hears them stop next to his.

"I just found him. He's okay."

 _Am I?_ Ronan wants to ask. He doesn't, though, instead just holds up a hand in an offensive gesture Adam is more than familiar with. 

He just snickers in response. "Yeah. He's fine."

There's a quiet beep as he hangs up the phone, and then a creak when Adam sits in the pew behind Ronan's. It's awkward for a minute, the knowledge that Gansey had called him to search for Ronan weighing heavy in the air, but once it passes, an almost companionable silence settles in the church. 

Almost. 

Ronan tries to relax again, finds it impossible; his senses are too finely attuned to Adam, wondering what he's doing and why he's staying. He opens his eyes to see arms folded over the back of his pew, a mess of brown hair spilling out on top of them. It takes a few minutes for him to hear the deep breathing that means sleep, and a a few more still for him to feel the smallest quirks of a smile on his face. 

"Go back to bed, Parrish," he mutters, so quiet he isn't sure he's said anything at all. It's tempting, so tempting, to reach out and just touch him. The tip of his elbow, the ends of his hair. Anything. Just to prove that he's real. He's already halfway there before he stops himself.

Instead, Ronan drops his hand and closes his eyes, and this time it's far easier to fall asleep. 

This time, his dreams are filled with calloused hands and distant eyes, engine oil smeared across dust-colored skin, a Henrietta accent with a tendency to slip out. He turns and sees Kavinsky, hands in his pockets and sneering behind his white-rimmed sunglasses. Ronan stops, lifts his chin. 

"It was never gonna be you and me, K."

_Tch. Keep telling yourself that, Lynch._

He vanishes, and Ronan sleeps through for the rest of the night.


End file.
